The Liar, The Bitch and the Wardrobe Read online

  “Oh shit, shit, shit!” Bella shrieked clicking away at her BlackBerry. “My driver had a flat on the freeway. He sent another car but the 405 is a parking lot. You said that you had a ride?” Oh no. Oh. No. “Do you think that you could take me home and my driver can come get the bags?” A ride? With my parents? This was going to be mortifying. But what was I supposed to say? I couldn’t exactly say, “Thanks for the ride back via your private jet, but no, I’m sorry, we cannot drive you home in our rental car.”

  “Of course. My parents are picking me up—if you don’t mind?” I had high hopes that she would mind, being that it was beyond lame.

  “That would be great! Thanks!” She returned to texting.

  The plane circled the lot and I scanned the area for my parents. When I was little, whenever we picked up a family member from the airport we would bedazzle a giant welcome sign. In my mind I pictured my parents holding up glittered billboard-sized foam boards that read “Welcome Lucy Butler!” while releasing bouquets of balloons and tossing streamers. I would probably shrivel up and die on the spot. I was relieved to see them leaning against their parked rental car, sans signs, outside the gate. I unbuckled my seat belt and made sure that I didn’t leave anything behind. I wanted to get to them first, to give them an update on what was happening, whom I was with, and most important, beg them not to humiliate me.

  “That Moschino is to die for!” Bella reminded me that I was dressed as the newer, improved version of myself. I put my hands in the pockets and looked down to admire the A-line dress that reminded me of something Audrey Hepburn might have worn. It was white and covered with little red hearts. I felt very feminine and extra-special in it.

  “I love it! Thank you again, for . . . everything!” I wished that there were another word that held more weight than thank-you because I would have used it. She threw her hand out as if to say, Please, it was nothing. She began gathering her things and I prayed that she would need a few minutes to stay on the plane to collect herself.

  We taxied right up to the gate, in front of my parents. The door to the plane was falling out at a snail’s pace. As soon as the stairs landed safely on the ground, I promptly put both hands on the rails and quickly climbed down. How did Isabella make this look so glamorous in heels? I felt like I was about to eat pavement. I looked up to find my mom and dad completely awestruck. My father was taking pictures. Here we go.

  I booked it to the car. Correction, I booked it to the teal Ford Focus hatchback that my parents rented. My parents sandwiched me in a smothering hug that nearly lifted me off the ground. I was excited to see them too—but I didn’t have much time!

  “Lucy! A private plane? Is that Mr. Lepres’? How exciting! Is he here too?” my mother gushed.

  “You look great, kid!” My dad held my hands and pushed me out, giving me a twirl. Their enthusiasm made me even more excited to have them here because I couldn’t wait to tell them the rest!

  “Stefano isn’t here—it’s just me and my friend, actually. But I have to tell you about her and she needs a ride home and, okay, so this might blow your mind a little bit—especially you, Mom—so you have to try and contain yourself because it’s important to me that you don’t . . .”

  “Of course we can give your friend a ride home and we won’t embarrass you, Lucy, geez . . . What, are you still afraid of being seen with your mommy and daddy?” My dad poked me repeatedly in the sides, which I have always hated, but he did it anyway because it tickled and I always laughed uncontrollably. But really, it has always driven me nuts!

  “Oh, Luce! Wait until you see our hotel room—you’re going to want to stay with us tonight, and if you do, that’s fine! We had them bring up a rollaway bed, just in case! It’s close to Rodeo and around all these amazing shops. We can get up really early and go window shopping tomorrow . . .” She whispered into my ear, “Or really go shopping tomorrow . . .” She winked. I couldn’t get a word in!

  “And hopefully we can get a chance to see you in action at work! Or at least stop by the studio to see where you spend all of your time,” my dad added.

  “And I really want to see a celebrity! Where do you think we should go?! My friend said that there is this restaurant called the Ivy where . . .”

  This is where I had to jump in. “Mom! This is what I need to talk to you about! My friend, Bella, is . . .”

  “Here! I’m here! Sorry to keep you waiting! It’s a pleasure to meet you.” Bella looked every bit the part of a star avoiding recognition in an enormous Eugenia Kim floppy hat and dark shades that could double as ski goggles. She extended her hand to my father first. “Please, call me Bella,” she said, assuming that I had told them we would be escorting Isabella Blackstone home. He introduced himself warmly as Bill. She then air kissed my mother on each cheek, “So nice to meet you!” My mother introduced herself as Renee. We stood there for an awkward moment. I thought that they were letting it marinate, fully grasping the fact that they were in the presence of Miss Isabella Blackstone. I paused for reaction.

  My father asked, “Where is the luggage?”

  “The driver will pick up our luggage when he’s able to get down here, which shouldn’t be too long. Lucy, if you can text him your address, he’ll drop yours off to you tonight.” She handed me her phone.

  My parents opened the car doors and flipped the front seats upright. We climbed into the back like little kids. Bella adjusted her skintight black tank dress so that nothing was exposed. Her hat was crushed in the confined corners of the backseat. I was pretty embarrassed that this was how we were rolling. Not that I was born into a Bentley, but come on—this turquoise roller skate was not a good look.

  “Seat belts!” my dad reminded. We managed to click ourselves in despite being smooshed together like sardines.

  My mom turned to us and gushed, “Private planes and drivers! You girls sure had the red carpet star treatment this weekend! I can’t wait to hear all about it!” Bella and I looked at my mother and then each other.

  They had no idea who she was.

  “So where are we off to, dear?” my dad asked while wiping the face of his iPhone off with his button-down shirt.

  “Malibu,” Bella informed.

  “Oh, very nice! I downloaded a GPS app on my phone that will show us how to get there by avoiding traffic . . .” My dad held his phone two feet away from his face and began sliding his finger across the screen. “If only I can just figure out how to open the damn thing . . .”

  “You and your apps! I have something way more fun. The girls will get a kick out of this!” My mother dug around in her giant purse. Why were they suddenly acting like Jerry’s parents from Seinfeld? Bella giggled. At least she was amused. “Look!” My mom held up a folded-up map that read STAR MAP: Your Guide to the Homes of the Rich and Famous. She spread the map across the dashboard. I wanted to die. “This guy was selling them at the freeway entrance and I couldn’t resist!! . . . Here it is! Mal-i-buuu . . . You have some famous neighbors, Bella! But I’m sure you know that! Mel Gibson! Jennifer Aniston! Cher!” Ironically, all I could think was how much I wanted to turn back time. Now.

  “Here we go . . . found the app. What’s your address, Bella?” At least my dad was keeping it cool.

  “17300 Pacific Coast Highway,” she stated clearly.

  “A perfect day for a drive along the coast.” He placed his iPhone on his knee and took off. “So, Lucy—tell us about Las Vegas! Were you there for a photo shoot?” He glanced at me in the rearview mirror.

  “No, Stefano decided to go last minute after our shoot in LA the other day, so he took me with him.” I chose my words carefully because I didn’t want them to know it was part of my job to trail him like a loyal Labrador.

  My mom was still scouring over the star map, but she added, “That was nice of him to take you on a trip. He must really like you!”

  “Mmmhmm,” I hummed.

  “Stefano loves her. We all do!” Bella exaggerated. “Are you doing anything special wit
h your parents this weekend?”

  “I’ll show them my new apartment today and then my mom wants to explore Beverly Hills. I think they’d love the view from Runyon Canyon, so maybe do that in the morning? Tomorrow we’ll probably do something fun and touristy and at night we’re having dinner at GiGi’s—where my best friend, Julie, will be working.”

  “You also live right by Diana Ross! And Tom Hanks!” At this point I had just accepted that my mother was going to do this for the entire drive. She had her head in the map and followed her finger along the Pacific Coast Highway, calling out famous names. It was like she had some desperate form of celebrity Tourette’s syndrome, dropping more names than Kathy Griffin.

  My dad tuned it out. “It will be great to see Julie! It’s too bad that she has to work the whole weekend.” I didn’t want to tell them that we’d had a falling-out, so I fibbed about her having to work.

  “Isabella Blackstone!” My mom shouted. “You two are practically neighbors . . . I read last week in Us Weekly that she—”

  I sprung forward and put my hands on my mom’s shoulders. “Mom . . . Stop already!” Bella grabbed onto my dad’s headrest and collapsed forward, laughing uncontrollably. I stopped taking everything so seriously and joined her in hysterics.

  “What? What did I say?” My mother turned to us with an innocent dolphin smile.

  Bella took off her scrunched hat and removed her sunglasses, then reached her hand out to my mom’s arm and enthusiastically asked, “Tell me—what did they say about Isabella Blackstone? I have to know!”

  I’m willing to bet that my mom peed in her pants a little, judging by the look on her face. She laughed nervously and folded up her star map. “Well, now I’m just embarrassed . . .” She covered her reddened face with the map and chuckled away.

  My father obliviously asked, “What? What is it?”

  Mom turned back around and asked, “So . . . do you know Cher?”

  We pulled up to a hidden community, secured by a guarded gate, which granted us access when Bella waved from the backseat. The guard was probably wondering what the hell she was doing in that car. Her multilevel Mediterranean-style house was surrounded by drizzling fountains and covered in creeping ivy. I mentally checked myself and couldn’t believe that my parents and I were dropping Isabella Blackstone off at her house.

  She hugged me good-bye in the backseat and told me that she’d call me. I wondered if she meant it, or if during the ride she was reminded that I was in fact just an ordinary person. Why would she call me anyway? My father let her out of the backseat and she hugged him, thanking him for the ride home.

  “Bella, would you mind if I used your restroom?” my mom asked from the passenger side. Oh lord, Mom—please just let us get out of here without further awkwardness, I wanted to say. They entered the house and I filled my dad in on who he had just driven home. He wasn’t too impressed, but then again, he wasn’t into such things. A few minutes later, my mother returned and got in the car. My dad backed us out of the driveway, and again we were off. My mom turned around and held up two small waxy starfish.

  “What are those?” I didn’t understand what she was showing me.

  “Souvenirs!” she exclaimed as she folded the decorative soaps in the star map and tucked them away in her purse.

  chapter sixteen

  Killer (sons of) Bees

  “Oh Lucy, do you have to go?” my mother pleaded. We were at Universal Studios, in line for the Jurassic Park ride. I felt horrible having to leave them like this, but if Stefano was calling me on my second day off ever, then it must have been extremely important.

  “I’m sorry you guys! It’s my job . . . I have to go—the taxi I called will be here any minute. I will meet back up with you in a few hours, promise!” They had to be proud of my work ethic at the very least.

  My father tried to make sense of it all. “What could be so urgent in a photo studio?”

  If only they knew the questions that were swimming through my mind. Had there been an overdose? Did Stefano finally kill one of my coworkers and need help hiding the body? Did he run out of decaf? Of course, I couldn’t let my parents know what an emergency in my job capacity could mean, so I dug myself deeper into the delusion that I had invented. “I’m not sure . . . Sometimes Stefano needs me to switch out camera lenses for him when it’s a hectic shoot. Or maybe the production team needs me to . . . produce something. It could be anything really! I’ll find out when I get there and call you right away!” I couldn’t believe that I was leaving my parents at a theme park—but what were my options? This could have been an opportunity to prove myself to Stefano! What if he was swamped with edits and needed me to make the selections for Rolling Stone? It could happen!

  When we pulled up to Stefano’s house, I paid the driver and sprinted from the taxi. I took a deep breath, braced myself for whatever was to come, and opened the front door using my own key. I scanned the room for any signs of chaos but everything was in its place. I heard a woman’s laughter coming from the backyard. I stepped into the serene sanctuary to find Stefano and a lady friend lounging poolside with kiddie pool–sized margaritas.

  He delightfully greeted me, which was slightly unsettling. Perhaps his good mood was an effect of the first day off from shooting that he’d had in months—or the margaritas. “There you are, honey! Are you having fun with your parents?”

  “I am, thank you! Your text said something about an emergency? Is everything okay?” I was confused. Everything appeared to be just fine.

  The petite woman spun her oiled legs around the lounge toward me and crossed them. She wore a gold foil Norma Kamali monokini—the kind that you see in magazines and wonder, Who actually wears these, and to where? because they couldn’t possibly be meant for actual swimming, and the tan lines would make anyone look like the underbelly of a spider. She slid her dark Sama shades atop her head, over a silk turban. I immediately recognized Vanessa Benshaw. Vanessa is an actress whose career never completely took off until she married her husband, William, a star player on the Lakers. The public became obsessed with their private life once they decided to do a short-lived reality show, and ever since the tabloids were constantly featuring how-to guides on emulating her as a woman, wife and mother—and him as a husband, sex symbol and athlete.

  She put her colossal concoction on the ground and reached up to shake my hand. “Lucy! I’ve heard so much about you! I’m so glad that you were able to come over and help me out.” While Vanessa seemed nice enough, I was irritated that Stefano just loaned me out to his friends like Tupperware. “Come, sit . . .” She scooted over. Half of me couldn’t believe that I was sitting with Vanessa Benshaw, and the other half was nervous about what they might have me do. Maybe they needed more margarita mix? Easy. I could run to the store in Stefano’s car and have my parents pick me up in an hour, tops. This wouldn’t be so bad.

  Stefano dove into the pool from the opposite end and swam up to where we sat. “V is my best friend, Lucy. We have to take special care of her today!” He dunked back under the water and began breaststroking back and forth.

  Vanessa put her hand on my arm and I readjusted myself to face her. “Lucy, we’re having a . . . sensitive situation at my house. I came here to discuss this situation with Steffy and we decided it’s best if I avoid being in the public eye today. Now, due to this . . . situation, I have had to let go of my staff and . . .” Her eyes began to well with tears, and she slid the dark shades back down. “I am unable to pick up my children from school and my husband is unavailable. Stef says that he would trust you with his children, and I trust him, so . . . you wouldn’t mind, would you?”

  Ordinarily I would be offended by being called in on my day off to chauffeur the children of someone that I don’t work for, let alone know, but in this case, I was touched that Stefano said those things about me, and I wanted to help Mrs. Benshaw. “Of course, I am happy to help.” Besides, picking up groceries versus a few kids and bringing them back here—not a h
uge difference. I could still meet my parents afterward and manage to save the day for my boss’s friend.

  I left immediately in Vanessa’s car because it had the booster seats for her two kids. She gave me directions and said that she’d call the school to let them know I would soon be arriving. If I was nervous to drive Stefano’s cars, I was horrified driving the Benshaws’ custom Bentley, which had to cost more than an average home in the valley. Small curtains were drawn on the backseat windows. I opened them to avoid any blind-spot issues. The steering wheel, headrests and rims all had a scripted B emblem prominently emblazoned on them. Everyone stared as I drove by in the gleaming white mansion on wheels. They were probably thinking, Who is that? The school was only about fifteen minutes away, and it took me an additional ten to find a parking spot that didn’t intimidate me. I opted for a spot farthest from the school’s entrance because there was nobody parked on either side and I didn’t want to risk anyone opening their mediocre Mercedes car door into Vanessa’s Bentley. The school looked like a small private college. The interior looked far too refined for an elementary school. The school’s crest was centered between two large stairways that led to the second floor, presumably where the classrooms were. To the side was the main office.

  I approached the desk manned by an older woman. “Excuse me,” I said. “I am here to pick up two students.” I leaned in and lowered my voice. “I believe that Mrs. Benshaw called ahead.”

  “Are you the nanny?” a well-to-do woman, sitting with who I assumed was her child, said from behind me. To avoid confusion or any chance of them not letting me take the kids from school, I fibbed. Well, actually, I didn’t consider it fibbing because, at that point in time—for that hour—I was their nanny. Sort of.